Survival
by punkydiva17
Summary: There is a killer on the loose, and nobody is safe. (Just a story in time for Halloween, AU, OCs, death, mayhem, etc.)
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

* * *

><p>With the sun rapidly disappearing on the horizon, he stumbled out of the alley. One hand gripped his right side tightly. The other hand held onto the brick wall for support. With three labored steps he stumbled out into the open. He didn't stop to take in his surroundings, instead moving quickly to get as much distance as he could. As he half-walked, half-stumbled, his eyes scanned around, searching for somebody, anybody. He was disappointed to find that like so many other times in his life, he was all by himself. Once again, he was going to have to find a way out of the mess he was in.<p>

Spitting a gob of red onto the sidewalk, he tried to ignore the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He was dying, and he knew it. He'd never make it to the hospital across town, he knew. His best bet was finding a house with people home or a good Samaritan. In this neighborhood, he knew the chances of a good Samaritan was unlikely. He had to find somewhere nicer, somewhere where this kind of thing wasn't the norm.

His ankle throbbed, making him walk with a pronounced limp. Every breath he took made his lungs burn. The wound underneath his breastbone was seeping, making the black T-shirt he wore stick to him. He was sweating profusely, in spite of his body temperature falling with every minute that passed. His dishwater blond hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes. He didn't bother moving it, keeping his right hand firmly on his side. The left hand was reaching for anything that could keep him standing. He knew the moment he hit the ground, the battle was over. To sit down, to take a moment, was to sign his own death certificate, and he wasn't about to do that.

With no traffic in sight, he jaywalked, grabbing a tree for support as he stepped onto the sidewalk. His entire body felt heavy, his legs felt like they were made of lead. He wheezed, coughing and spitting blood onto the sidewalk every couple feet, but he kept moving, even as the ability to breathe became harder. He used the trees, street lights and fire hydrants to keep him standing. Redness oozed onto his hand from the wound in his side, sticky and warm. His clothing was wrecked beyond repair. He had seen this much blood before, back when he was younger and dumber. But the difference was that this time it was _his _blood, and that scared the hell out of him.

He coughed. A bubble of blood burst, staining his lips and his chin. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt too weak to call for help. There was an irremovable chill in his bones. The sound of the blade scraping his bones was still in his ear, a sound he was sure he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Crossing another road, he found himself in the nicer area of town, an area where he could only dream of living. Willow trees lined the streets. Houses that seemed palatial to him sat on emerald, well-maintained lawns, complete with gardens of colorful flowers. With his breath becoming more and more shallow, he began to half-walk, half-stumble up the hill towards a white house with a black Ford F-350 sitting in the driveway.

* * *

><p>"Okay. Stop it. That's enough. You're cheating."<p>

Mark Calaway rested his hand on his fist. He spoke with a mischievous growl. His face registered a mask of petulance, though his green eyes sparkled with amusement. Sitting beside him at the giant oak dining table was his twenty-two year-old daughter, Faith, who was home for the summer from college. She'd gotten in the week before. In two days, she would start working a secretary position at the police station, a job he hooked up for her while she was home. He looked into the green eyes of his daughter, eyes so much like his own. Everything else about his eldest child was a dead ringer for his first, long-departed wife.

"How am I cheating?" she demanded, exasperated. With a shake of her wrist she flung the dice across the backgammon board. It was an argument they had every time they played the game, but it was something she always looked forward to when she came home. The dice came back with another set of doubles, her third set, two sets of four. He exhaled, an over-the-top and drawn out sigh. He was getting ready to instate a rule that would have her missing turns for every three sets of doubles she rolled. When she was younger, he always accused her of eating horseshoes for breakfast, something that still made her giggle. Now, it just annoyed him.

"The way you're rolling..."

"Oh, stop it!" she snorted, moving her pieces on the board. Backgammon had always been a bond for the two of them, a game of strategy and math. Faith knew how to keep herself protected, no matter how she moved. They were both very good players; over the years, Faith had learned to be just as cutthroat as her father when it came to the game. Picking up the dice again, she rolled, dropping it on the board. A two and a six. Mark rolled his eyes.

"_Finally_..."

"Oh, stop. I don't even know why we still play this stupid game. All we do is bicker," she pointed out. Deep down, she knew that for all of his arguing, he looked forward to the games as much as she did. It was something that was just for them. "You are such a bear to play with."

Faith Margaret Calaway was tall like her father, though she only stood at five foot nine. She had the rounded, doll-like face of her mother. Her hair was copper and down to her chest, with bangs that were always cut perfectly. She was blessed with her father's ambition and her mother's compassion. For eight months of the year, Faith attended college in California, a far cry from Cincinnati, Ohio. Born and raised in Houston, Texas, Mark had relocated to Cincinnati two years prior to take the position of lead homicide detective.

"_I'm _a bear?" he grumbled incredulously. He was an imposing figure of six-ten and had the ability to stop people dead in their tracks with one glare.

"I could take the issue to Michelle. I bet you she'd agree," Faith told him. Mark shot her a look of amusement. Upstairs, his wife was bathing their two year-old twins. Faith took a sip of her tea as Mark rolled his own set of dice, coming up with two sets of sixes.

"Double sixes! Fuck yes!" he boomed, his voice bouncing off every wall of the house. It caught Faith by surprise, but she had to laugh.

"_Mark! Language!" _Michelle's voice rang out from the floor above. There was an edge of annoyance to her tone. Mark and Faith exchanged glances with each other before quickly averting their eyes, trying to hold back their laughter.

There was a loud thump at the door. Faith and Mark turned their head in the direction of the door. "I'll get that," Faith answered, standing. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she made a beeline to the door. The thump grew louder this time.

Faith unlocked the front door and flung it open. Her hands clasped over her mouth at the sight before her. She was frozen in place, stuck. She knew firsthand how tough and how cold the world could be. She had always considered herself an optimist in spite of what she knew. But seeing things firsthand hit her like an bucket of ice water to the face.

"Fucking...help..." he said weakly as he tripped over the threshold. As if a switch had snapped on in her brain, she rushed forward, trying to catch him before he hit the ground. He took her down to the floor with him. When she hit the ground and saw the blood on her hands and on her clothing, it was as if she had finally found her voicebox.

"Dad!" she called out before her voice rose two octaves and became more frantic, a primal scream. "_Dad_!"


	2. Chapter One

_**Chapter One**_

* * *

><p>Faith sat against the wall in the main hallway with her knees crooked. Her elbow rested on her left knee, her hand against her forehead. She hadn't moved from her spot since the paramedics forced her back. Blood covered her hands, her arms and her clothing. She wanted to have a shower, to wash it all away, but she knew better. There were puddles of blood on the doorstep and bloody footprints on the floor. She was too shocked to feel anything resembling disgust or nausea at the sight of it. Outside the peace and quiet of the neighborhood was now shattered by flashing lights and sirens. In the back of her mind, she wondered how her father could do this for so many years.<p>

It felt like they had just taken him away in the ambulance, even though she was sure that about twenty minutes had passed since everyone arrived. With the chaos over, it was Faith's time to fall apart, but she couldn't this time. In her mind, as clear as a bell, she could still see the life draining from his eyes and hear the weakness in his voice.

Officer Randy Orton stepped into the house. The Calaway family and the Orton family became friends when Mark transferred. For a time, both families had been neighbors. Randy worked closely with Mark at the police station. He was tall, six-five, a lean mass of muscle with close cropped brown hair and small gunmetal eyes. He made a beeline to Michelle McCool-Calaway, who stood at the foot of the stairs, shaking, her right arm crossed over her chest and her left clasped over her mouth in horror. Her crystalline blue eyes shone with tears. Her eyes shifted to Randy as he approached.

"Michelle," he greeted.

"Randy." She hugged him tightly. He hugged her back. Mark and Michelle had been married for four years. Randy didn't know Michelle as well as Mark and Faith, but Mark seemed happy enough with her.

"Where's Mark?" he asked, his eyes scanning the house. In the dining room, he could see the backgammon board open on the table. He couldn't help but smirk; backgammon was Mark's game. Sometimes Randy played, but Mark was a jerk to play with in his opinion. He didn't know how Faith could do it.

"He followed the ambulance to the hospital. You know how he is," she added. Randy nodded. Michelle looked over at her traumatized stepdaughter. Randy's eyes followed. Michelle shook her head. "This is awful. Just awful."

"What happened? Are the twins okay?" he asked, an edge of panic in his voice. To his relief, Michelle nodded.

"They're upstairs, in bed. I was giving them a bath. I just...I heard Faith screaming..." Michelle trailed off, shaking her head as she shuddered. It had been a horrifying sight, coming down the stairs to the gruesome tableau she'd seen. She had no idea how her husband could do it for a living. It was the first time she'd seen Mark's professional life spill into their home life, and she didn't like it one iota. Randy stole a glance over at Faith, who hadn't moved.

She wasn't sure how much of a fighter the man was, but she'd managed to keep him semi-conscious while they waited for the paramedics. She was pretty sure he had suffered a punctured lung. Every time he tried to speak, to answer a question, blood would burst from his lips. Faith tried to blink back tears, but it did nothing but mingle with the spot of blood on her cheek.

"Is she okay?" Randy asked, motioning over to her. He loved Faith like a sister. When they had first moved next door to the Orton family, Randy had tried to pursue something with her when she was home from college, but nothing had ever worked. The timing was never right. They both came to the realization that they were better as friends.

"She hasn't said a word since the paramedics arrived. She probably should go to the hospital, Randy. I think she's in shock," Michelle confessed. Randy nodded. "I'm sorry. I have to get upstairs and look in on the twins."

"Yeah, sure. Do what you gotta do. I'll look in on Faith." With a quiet word of gratitude, Michelle turned and ascended the stairs. With a deep sigh, Randy walked over to Faith and sat down beside her on the floor. They were quiet a while as they watched the other officers and criminalists work.

"You okay?" he asked. She looked at him. He saw the blood on her cheek and a smudge of blood on her forehead that transferred from her hand. He wanted to touch her, to give her a reassuring hug or a pat on the leg, but she was covered in evidence. He was going to need her clothing. In the doorway, Officer Christian Cage was taking photographs of the smeared blood on the door frame.

"I'm pretty fucking far from okay," she confessed, keeping her gaze straight ahead. He nodded.

"Fair enough."

"You're going to need my clothes."

"I do. But when you're ready," he added. There was a beat. "Michelle thinks you're in shock. Are you?"

"Probably. I'm okay." Randy nodded. He knew she was just as stubborn as her old man. Faith could have lost a limb and bled out before admitting she needed any kind of help. She was her father's daughter all around. Randy knew he couldn't force her to get looked at if she didn't want to be.

"Did you know this guy?" Randy asked her. She shook her head.

"Never seen him before in my life." She rested her head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. . "Please, God, let him pull through this. Don't let him die."

* * *

><p>Mark couldn't recall a time where he had heard Faith scream the way she had. It was going to haunt him forever. By the time he had gotten out of his chair and to the foyer, she had been pinned underneath him. The two of them worked to move the man off her as carefully as possible. Faith had sat up and taken off her bloodstained grey cardigan, searching for wounds and applying pressure with the sweater while Mark called for the paramedics. Michelle had come down the stairs, but Mark was in work-mode and Faith was in lifesaver mode, trying her best to keep him conscious and keep him from bleeding out. Every time the man tried to speak he'd cough, spurting blood from between his lips like a small fountain. While on the phone, Mark searched the front pockets of the man's jeans. There was nothing inside to identify him.<p>

He sat down in the green chair in the waiting room with his cup of black coffee, ready to spend the night at the hospital if he had to. There was no way he was going home without an update for Faith. The man, who Mark was considering a John Doe, was in emergency surgery now. Mark knew the doctors and nurses would do everything in their power to save him, but it seemed as if the man had lost a lot of blood.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. His well-trained mind had taught him to follow the evidence, but with nothing but time on his hands in the hospital waiting room, Mark couldn't help but think about what could have caused the situation. Was it a drug deal gone wrong? A random act of violence? He wished he knew. He hoped the kid pulled through, if for no other reason than he wanted to find the knife-wielding lunatic that was still in the wind.

A nurse was in his view. He watched as she disappeared into the elevator. She had full, thick blonde hair and dead eyes. He looked at the clock. The time seemed to be moving slowly. He hoped the coffee kiosk in the middle of the waiting room was open twenty-four-seven, because he was guaranteed to drink a few gallons before the night was over.

It was a surprisingly quiet night at the hospital. The waiting room was scarce. A child sat in his mother's lap behind him, weeping. Mark was pretty sure they were there waiting to see a doctor over the kid's fever, by the way the child's mother was constantly feeling his forehead. His cheeks were red and blotched and he held onto his mother's shirt as he cried. Mark thought the child didn't look any younger than four. Mark went back to his coffee and took a sip. It was a good coffee kiosk; he always made a habit to stop in when he was forced to spend time at the hospital.

He hated hospitals. He hated the fluorescent lights and the sterility of the environment. The atmosphere was always cold to him. His hatred for the institution dated back to when he was a child, visiting his grandparents. Mark would never in a million years confess those feelings to anyone, though, not even his wife. At his staggering six-foot-ten stature and his wide frame, Mark was seen as a fearless, unstoppable force on the squad. He was willing to do whatever it took to keep that reputation intact.

Mark sat for an hour. He knew that the kid would be in surgery a while. He'd lost a lot of blood. More people arrived, others left. The mother and son got in to see the doctor. Mark finished his coffee and threw out the cup in the trashcan beside him. Standing to get another coffee, he turned to make his way to the kiosk and spotted his daughter walk through the sliding door. Randy was two paces behind her, rubbing the back of his neck. He blinked. Faith had showered and changed, dressed in a pair of dark denim shorts and an old Doors T-shirt underneath a red, white and blue plaid shirt. Mark noted that she looked exhausted.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep unless I know he's going to make it," Faith confessed. Her hands were shaking. He watched her jam them into her pockets to hide them. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know, Faith," Mark answered. "He's still in surgery and he could be in there for a few more hours." He looked past his daughter to Randy, relieved to know that Randy had driven. He didn't want Faith on the road; he was worried about shock and trauma. "Hey, Orton."

"Hi, Mr. Calaway. She insisted on coming down here."

"Thanks for bringing her." He knew that once she made her mind up, there was no changing it. He hugged his daughter. His words were soft. "Did you want to get yourself looked at? You've been through something traumatic..."

"I'm okay. I'm fine," she insisted. Mark pulled back.

"Do you know him?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No." She wondered how her father could live with the burden he lived with, having to work long hours to make only a small dent in the city's violence. She wondered how he could live with the knowledge that while he slept, while he was at home with his family, people were out inflicting unspeakable damage on each other.

"It's going to be a long wait, Faith. Did you want something to drink? I'm gonna get a coffee," Randy said to her softly, nudging her. She nodded.

"I could, thanks. Could you get me a cappuccino?"

"Sure thing." Randy walked towards the kiosk. Faith and Mark sat down. Mark looked over at his daughter and gave her a once-over. She looked over at him, catching him mid-stare.

"Stop looking at me like that. I'm okay," she insisted. She cocked her head in Randy's direction. "It's bad enough _he's _acting like I'm some hysterical female, I don't want you to do it, either."

"I'm your dad. I worry."

"I get that. Just...please...I'm okay." He stared into her eyes. After a moment, he nodded.

"Okay. I'll drop it." Randy returned with a cup of coffee in each hand. He handed one to Faith and sat down beside Mark. Faith thanked him quietly, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Do you think he'll pull through?" Randy asked. Mark sighed.

"I hope so. Kid lost a lot of blood, though..." Mark confessed. They fell silent. Faith stared down at her coffee, every now and then taking a sip. It was another hour and a half of waiting in silence before they spotted a doctor approaching.

"Detective Calaway?" the doctor asked. He was tall, over six feet but shorter than Mark. He had short black hair and a full beard on his face. Mark nodded. The doctor extended his hand. "Dr. Damien Sandow."

"You operating on the John Doe?"

"I have been," he confirmed.

"What's his condition?"

"Well, he's lost a lot of blood, but we gave him a transfusion and got him stabilized. We had to go in and repair his lung and remove his spleen. He's not out of the woods yet, but I'm optimistic he'll pull through. We'll be keeping him under sedation for a few days to let things heal. I will call you as soon as he awakens, sir."

"Thank you." Mark reached into his wallet and pulled out his card. Dr. Sandow took it before disappearing down the hallway. Mark turned to Faith and Randy.

"It's time to go home. There's nothing we can do here for him now," Mark said. Faith nodded. The three of them left the hospital. Faith crossed her arms over her chest as a blast of cold air hit her. "I hate to be that guy, but why my place?" Mark lamented. Randy shook his head.

"You were the third. We found two other doors with bloody hand prints on them. At the McMahon house and the Rusev house."

"Why didn't they answer the door?"

"Can't speak for the Bulgarian, but the McMahon family is on their yearly vacation to Cabo," Mark answered. Faith nodded, her mouth opening into a slight "Ah". "You want to ride with me?"

"Sure. Save Randy the extra trip." She turned to him. "Thanks for bringing me."

"No problem." They hugged. "If you need to talk later, I'll probably be up all night."

"I appreciate that." She pulled back and moved to the passenger's side of the truck. Mark unlocked it with a button. When she closed the door, Mark turned to Randy and sighed.

"I wish we knew who this guy is," Mark lamented. "Whoever did this to him is on the loose. God forbid he hits anybody else."

"We'll start poking around in the morning. See if there's any missing persons on him or a rap sheet or something," Randy assured him. "Get some sleep. You look wiped, man."

"I am." He gave Randy a swat on the arm. "Drive safe."

"You, too."

"Shit, I get my best sleep when I'm driving," Mark teased with a grumble. He opened the door and got into the driver's side. Faith watched from the rear-view mirror as Randy walked to his police car and got inside. She said nothing to her father as he fired up the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. She hoped everyone was gone by the time they got back.


End file.
